Building A Mystery
by Delirium's Child
Summary: Ranger makes a discovery


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Building a Mystery

Note: Ok, this really doesn't fit the challenge. I'm sorry for that. It started out to, but then it got it's own agenda and that was that. I hope you like it anyway, and it was inspired by the challenge, so… um, here goes. My first rqfic.

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The street was deserted. There are lots of streets that this would be a perfectly normal state of affairs for, and several hours a night this very street might have been one of them. But not this street, and not right now. It was the middle of the afternoon on a warm fall day, and this street was located in a working class part of town, surrounded by neatly trimmed lawns, big trees, and small row houses.

It was a pink flamingo and lawn-gnomes kind of place. It was a neighborhood of young couples starting out and old couples turning in. There were swing sets, sand boxes, the occasional tree house. In the middle of the afternoon, a street like this should have been buzzing with activity.

The only noise was the slow rhythmic squeaking as the small breeze swayed a rusty swing. Ranger's eyes narrowed suspiciously and his hand wandered to the gun at his belt. Something this weird, in his experience, usually meant trouble was headed his way.

Keeping his eyes open for any suspicious activity he walked toward the door of the house he was here to visit. He wasn't sure how he knew that this was the one, he just did. His instincts were always right. It was just like all the other houses: neatly trimmed yard, a few bushes and flowers, a lone lawn-gnome hiding by the steps. Lace curtains were visible in a couple of the windows, and the siding would need a new coat of paint soon.

He felt remarkably out of place. His heart rate was up, too. He wondered what that was about.

Shrugging it off, he raised his hand and knocked.

No response.

He knocked again. This time the door simply swung inward, creaking on its hinges all the way.

Ranger's hand checked his gun, making sure it was ready in its holster as he stepped inside. The interior was brighter than he expected- well lit and cheerful. The furniture was a little worn, but still serviceable, and the walls were covered in photographs.

He hesitated, debating whether or not to go further inside when a faint noise caught his attention. He stilled and listened. There it was again. He drew the gun, almost by reflex, and edged through to the dining room. He glanced around the corner, into the kitchen.

Older appliances, but a new stove. Judging by the scorch marks on the wall around it, he could guess what had happened to its predecessor. The ghost of a smile touched his lips at the thought. The linoleum was peeling in one corner, and the table and chairs looked well used. A piece of paper on the table caught his eye. Satisfied the room was unoccupied, he walked over to investigate, careful not to touch anything.

The paper was a piece of Garfield stationary containing a grocery list written in a familiar loopy feminine scrawl, but parts of it were blurred, letters bleeding into one another where someone had dripped water onto it.

He frowned, failing to see a pattern to the droplets, and seeing nothing suspicious in the legible contents of the list. Bread, milk, cake mix, nothing unusual. He looked around the room again, still searching for- what was he searching for? Something. Something he hadn't found yet.

He started toward the back door when the sound caught his attention again. He cocked his head and tried to define it, but failed. It came again. It sounding like it was coming from the upstairs. His body tight with tension he retraced his path, out of the kitchen, through the dining room, into the front until he stood at the foot of the stairs.

There it was again, somewhat louder.

Keeping his gun up, ready to fire, he crept up the stairs as carefully as he could. Amazing that none of them squeaked. Houses this old usually sounded like an off-key piano. The sound became clearer as he neared the top. Dripping water?

The upstairs hall had four doors, one of them closed. The nearest one was a bedroom, strewn with women's clothes and several pairs of shoes. Across the hall from it was a second bedroom, this one somewhat larger and obviously the master bedroom. It had wicker furniture, solid blue trims and bedspread, candles- but just as empty as the other one.

The water dripped, increasing his unease. His instincts were screaming now, demanding that he turn around and walk right back out that door but he couldn't do it. Something kept pulling him on, drawing him further in.

Right now it was dragging him toward the closed door. He struggled within himself, fighting for control of his runaway imagination. The water kept dripping, a slow, steady beat. Almost a heartbeat.

He nudged the door open with his foot, standing ready to the side.

No attackers came running out. He edged around the doorway, keeping ready for anything- anything except the sight awaiting him.

The room in front of him was red. Blood red. The tile floor was slick and shining with it, a trail ran down the edge of the sink. He'd seen worse, he reminded himself. He'd seen worse. He repeated that phrase in his head like a mantra.

And then he saw the bathtub. Saw the tangled mass of brown curls drifting on the blood stained water. Saw the pale arm extended over the edge, the water dripping off the manicured fingers.

His breath rushed out of him and for a moment he felt like his heart had stopped. His feet moved of their own volition, dragging him closer. He fought it, fought against every movement, but it was useless. He was getting closer, soon he'd be able to see her face… He shied away from that thought with his entire being. He couldn't see her, not like this. He couldn't let this be the way he remembered her. She deserved more.

And that was it. He reeled away from the horror in front of him, backed out of the room, leaving dark footprints on the wooden floor.

Why? The word echoed through his mind, over and over. It wasn't supposed to end like this. She wasn't supposed to end like this.

"Why?" he whispered, as if the house could answer him.

The only reply was the dripping of the water.

Ranger lost track of the time, didn't know how long he had stood there, leaning against the wall before he remembered how to move again. He should call someone. The cops would be a good start, he decided. He reached for his phone, only to realize his hand was still occupied. He looked down at the gun like he'd never seen it before.

He really should call the cops.

His gaze slid from the barrel to the floor, following his own bloody footprints to the threshold of the bathroom.

Cops. He should call the cops.

Images, sensations began to drift through his mind. The blood staining the white floor, trailing down the wall. Brown curls floating in a pool of blood. A pair of blue eyes he'd never see again. Lips he'd never taste again. A blush he'd never cause. A black dress she'd never wear. A kiss they'd never share. A laugh he'd never hear.

Fuck the cops. Someone else could call them.

He was barely conscious of his decision until he felt the circle of cold metal against his temple. He didn't question it, though. His instincts were always right. His finger brushed the trigger and he took a deep, calming breath, his eyes fixing on the picture-covered wall across from him, settling on a picture of- his breath caught as the contents of the first hit him like knife to the chest.

A smiling bride and groom surrounded by family and friends. Normally a perfectly benign sort of thing, unless of course you recognized the bride as the woman you loved, and the groom wasn't you. Worse if you saw yourself standing close by the couple, just letting it happen. And terrifying if you knew the wedding hadn't happened yet.

His arm fell to his side, he shook his head in denial. It made no sense. How could this-- his cell phone rang. Dazed, Ranger holstered the gun and reached for the phone. It wasn't on his belt. He frowned and checked his pockets. Not there either…

He blinked down at his side in confusion. Gun, belt, sheet…

Sheet?

He rubbed his eyes and looked again at the white sheet covering him. He stared around himself in wonder. The bedroom was dark, the morning light just beginning to show through the curtains as his cell phone continued to beep itself into a frenzy. He grabbed it off the nightstand, catching it on the last ring before it went to voicemail.

"Talk," he muttered, still reeling from the dream from hell.

"Ranger? Thank God, I just-" the voice on the other end sent his pulse into overdrive.

"Babe?" he managed, his throat tight even as the lingering fear from the dream began to ease.

"Yeah. Look, I need your help-" And I need you, he thought dryly as she explained the newest problem. Maybe it was time for another deal. A much more permanent kind of deal, to ensure that there was at least one dream that never came true.


End file.
